


First Do No Harm

by consultingkaty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Character Study, Community: holmestice, Doctor John Watson, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 02:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingkaty/pseuds/consultingkaty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is more than one way to be a doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Do No Harm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thirtypercent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirtypercent/gifts).



Had one asked Dr. John H. Watson about his work as a G.P. Locum in a small clinic run by one Dr. Sarah Sawyer, he would have answered that it passed the time. Lots of ‘Flu, lots of sniffles—the usual. And that would be that. After all, what more was there to say?

Had one asked Dr. John H. Watson about his work as primary physician to one Sherlock Holmes—well. Hopefully, one would have time for tea. There were twists and fractures, concussions and lacerations, dips into the near-freezing waters of the Thames which resulted in mild hypothermia, migraines that interfered with the Work, and even, one memorable December, a bout of ‘Flu that was still spoken of in hushed tones by the staff of Speedy’s.

John would huff and puff, and swear and mutter, and delight in telling anyone who listened what a horrible patient the world’s only consulting detective was. Then said consulting detective would wander into the room, and the good doctor would pause for a moment, his deep blue eyes tracking the younger man’s movements, inspecting and deducing in his own way. 

“I told you to stay off of that ankle last week, Sherlock,” he would say. “Still bothering you now, when you could have just iced and kept off of it like a good boy, and it’d be healed up in a day or two.” 

And Sherlock, high and mighty Sherlock, taker of nothing from anyone, would have the decency to look the tiniest bit abashed at that. Would duck his head for half an instant, before jutting his chin and leveling his best Holmesian glare at his friend. And John? He would laugh. He would take one look at his personal peacock’s posturing, and giggles would well up from his chest. Before long, Sherlock would abandon his sulk and join in, unable to resist the lure of John’s glee. 

Those were the good times--the peaceful lulls, where John could inspect his handiwork in the health of his patient’s body. The times John could cluck over ignored directives or boast about scarless healing. Those were the times of Dr. John H. Watson, G.P.

There are other times, though. Great times. Times when John sheds his General Practitioner persona for something far less mild. Times when a sore throat or bruised anterior talofibular ligment are the least of his concerns as he fights to save his patient’s life. Those are the times of Captain John H. Watson, M.D. 

The War Doctor, Sherlock once called him, after sulking his way through a Doctor Who session. John wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the fact that that was all his genius had gotten from the particular mini-episode, but he couldn’t deny that it made a compelling title. He briefly wondered if he could get business cards made. It wouldn’t be until much later, several cases and prayers and patches, that he would understand why Sherlock had re-purposed the phrase for John. 

When Sherlock lay sprawled in London’s filthy alleyways, his blood painting the grime from grey to brown, his breath coming in pained pants while his brilliant eyes lost their razor focus—John would be there. A different John. The John who would shed his fluffy, bland jumpers. Would tear them to shreds for use as bandages or tourniquets, or bundle them up as makeshift headrests. The John who would use the whole of his body weight to stanch a wound that threatened to bleed out. Who would bark orders at the paramedics when they arrived, knowing that he would be obeyed. Who would threaten and swear and beg and barter and make Sherlock stay conscious when the darkness bled through the edges of his vision. 

This is the War Doctor of legend throughout New Scotland Yard, and much of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital (or at least the A.&E. and morgue). The man who has stitched his patient’s brow back together in the hard plastic chairs of Interrogation Room C using contraband whiskey, a lighter and a sewing kit, and has set dislocated shoulders back into their sockets using Detective Inspector Lestrade’s doorway as a brace. The man who so frequently is covered in blood not his own. 

But there is another facet to John H. Watson. One that is for his patient alone. John. Healer. The man who stays, after the cases are solved and the lull has passed. John, with his fluffy bland jumpers. The John who would sit patiently beside the sofa, waiting for Sherlock to build up the energy or effort or motivation to eat the slice of toast that has been prepared for him. John who makes the toast and waits because he knows that Sherlock will not disappoint him. And that knowledge is exactly what prevents Sherlock from doing just that. This is the John who keeps watch on danger nights. A quiet, yet unwavering presence in 221B, a lone sentinel between Sherlock and the demons of his mind. 

This is the John who keeps watch when Sherlock finally caves to the demands of his body. When exhaustion overtakes genius, this is the John who leads him to bed. Who pulls back the covers and arranges the pillows. This is the John who talks softly, drowning out the thoughts that rage like storms, so that Sherlock can find peace and repose amidst the susurrus of a gentle voice. 

And sometimes, this is the John who gathers up the lanky detective in his arms. Who somehow manages to contain over six feet of lean, sharp consulting detective within the confines of five feet and six inches of army doctor. This is the John who heals Sherlock’s heart. The John who refuses to believe when others, even Sherlock himself, says there isn’t one. This is the John who knows better. 

This is the John who moves just so. Who coaxes throaty groans and breathless sighs as surely as he sets bones and mends flesh. This is the John who makes Sherlock’s world stutter. This is the John who holds Sherlock close and vows to never let go. 

This Doctor is for Sherlock alone.


End file.
